which no great leader in any walk of life can well dispense--an
unsoundable depth.

Conyngham learnt also that the human heart is capable of rising at
one bound above differences of race or custom, creed and spoken
language. He walked with Estella in that quiet garden between high
walls on the trim Moorish paths, and often the murmur of the running
water which ever graced the Moslem palaces was the only sound that
broke the silence. For this thing had come into the Englishman's
life suddenly, leaving him dazed and uncertain. Estella, on the
other hand, had a quiet savoir-faire that sat strangely on her young
face. She was only nineteen, and yet had a certain air of
authority, handed down to her from two great races of noble men and
women.

'Do all your countrymen take life thus gaily?' she asked Conyngham
one day; 'surely it is a more serious affair than you think it.'

'I have never found it very serious, senorita,' he answered. 'There
is usually a smile in human affairs if one takes the trouble to look
for it.'

'Have you always found it so?'

He did not answer at once, pausing to lift the branch of a mimosa
tree that hung in yellow profusion across the pathway.

'Yes, senorita, I think so,' he answered at length, slowly. There
was a sense of eternal restfulness in this old Moorish garden which
acted as a brake on the thoughts, and made conversation halt and